Zurine Martinique Rodriguez
by Prosper-the-XVIII
Summary: My father...Do I love him? Yes. Does he try and keep me out of his crazy side? Yes. Does it always work? Not necessarily. Has any of it rubbed off on me? Probably. Being the daughter of a revenge-crazed lunatic is NEVER easy. My name was Zurine, and currently is Lila. Do you know how it feels to be the daughter of Raoul Silva? Do you want to find out? Read on- I dare you.


Me? Who am I? I don't know. He says it's possible to forget; that he did a long time ago and that when that happens you just have to make it up and start again. But to be honest, I don't want to. I don't want to lose her part of me. Martinique. That was her name – my mother – and it's my second. She was Martinique Rosalie Vergara; I was Zurine Martinique Rodriguez the last time I checked. Martinique came from my mother; Rodriguez from my father – his first name is – well, was – Tiago – and I suppose that Zurine is from both; my grandmother on my father's side was called Zuri and on my mother's was Evangeline. Well, that's where my name comes from. Though that's not it anymore. I've been called Lila Naomi Silva for the past year and a bit now, but haven't quite adjusted to it yet.

Hold on. This might sound childish, but this is my diary, so if you're looking at this without permission then I'll have to kill you and I'll get away with it because I know how. Don't say you weren't warned.

Anyway, before I had to warn you to fear for your life if you're reading this without it being okayed by me, what was I talking about? Oh yeah, my oh-so-perfect family life, or rather lack of one. My mother – died when I was seven. I think she was murdered, actually. Either that or she killed herself. I just remember blood. I cared about her, I have to say that, and I remember trying to strangle my best friend's older brother for calling her a prostitute. I didn't know what this meant and I don't think that he did either, but I didn't like the sound of it. Still, now I've found out what that actually is, I have to agree. Well, I never saw her with the same man twice anyway, except for my father. He lived with us for about a year before leaving again. My mother said something about him working for MI6 – whatever the hell that was.

My father...Okay, you can't actually put him into words. Caring somewhere if you looked really hard really deep down – probably in a submarine with a powerful searchlight – is the nice way of putting it. Revenge-driven psychopathic lunatic is the not-so-nice way. Do I love him? Yes. Does he try and keep me out of his crazy side? Yes. Does it always work? Not always. Has any of it rubbed off on me? Probably. Well, I've gotten pretty damn good at hacking computers and I've blown stuff up using my phone as well. But some of what he does can freak me out a little now.

Writing this is making me feel like a child for some reason. I'm twenty-three years old, yet I can't help feeling thirteen from time to time. Anyway, having a complete psychopath with appalling dress sense for my dad, living on a deserted island with only one other sane human being (and this is _not _my father, but a woman who works for him named Sévérine) and having a slightly annoying habit that arouses out of boredom that involves hacking into national security databases and using a tablet to draw moustaches on people's official photos (ironically their security isn't actually that good; a child could hack one of those firewalls in seconds) doesn't really make for an easy lifestyle, but on the plus side, I don't think I know of anyone who lives the way I do.

A Bit Later...

Help me. After what my father has just told me, I don't think I'll be able to sleep. I'm alone and freaking out big-style. This is how it happened...

I was in my room, on my laptop, turning Barrack Obama into The Joker with virtual ink, when my father walked in. I don't think that I really looked up, just continued giving the US president a green crew cut, but I stopped what I was doing when I felt his hand on my leg. My father's, I mean, not Obama or The Joker. What my father told me then freaked me out a little; in fact, I nearly died.  
"Lila," his voice calmed me a little; whenever he spoke with his current tone, he was generally breaking bad news. He held me close, his hand running through my mussed-up blonde waves. "Oh, my Lila...Look, I need to go for a while. I think I'll be back soon, but...Look, there are some men trying to kill me. I'm going to kill them first."


End file.
